Riddles
by sbryld
Summary: Driven mad by your own flesh. The stink of Muggles. You hate your own existence.


Don't own Harry Potter etc.

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><p>"I'm so happy to see you again, son." Mr Riddle beamed at the figure who was seated in front of the window, the curtains fluttering behind him and strengthening the illusion that the man had somehow materialised there with the help of the wind. Or so it seemed to Mr Riddle. The man returned the smile.<p>

"As am I, father. I do love Little Hangleton in the summer."

"Well, how long are you staying this time, dear? I should think a month, at the least, so you can enjoy the warm weather."

Mrs Riddle looked expectantly at him, her intense attention belying the casual, conversational tone.

"Of course, mother. Longer, if I can. I have been away longer than I expected."

At once, Mrs Riddle's face split into a delighted smile, her infectious happiness making the fire's glow warmer and cosier still.

"Let's have dinner, then, and plan our days together!"

And with that, she leapt up and disappeared into another room.

Mr Riddle's eyes twinkled as he met Tom's and said, "Well, come on son. We'll all feel warmer with food in our stomachs."

Tom watched his father walk out of the room, noticing for the first time the slight limp and slower pace he used.

Had he really left for so long?

By the time he had sufficiently contemplated that thought and managed to arrive at the dining room, Mr and Mrs Riddle had finished their entrees and were waiting with their dinners untouched. Tom noted that a fourth place had been set.

"Tom!" Mr Riddle exclaimed, wiping the corner of his mouth. "Glad you could make it."

"Sorry. I was..." What could he say? 'I was thinking about how long I had abandoned you'?

"...reminiscing." He concluded.

"Just come and sit dear. Would you like your entree?" He shook his head.

"Do we have a guest?" He asked, confused and slightly irritated that they had not told him before. Irritation gave way to a looming melancholy which threatened to envelop him. Did they not consider him part of the family and worthy as well as privy to such information?

"Mr Sutler told us you would know. We thought you had invited someone, Tom." Mr Riddle looked at him curiously.

"I didn't invite anyone..." Who could it be? He hadn't given his address to anyone; he had made sure no one could follow him here.

"Well, why don't we just ask Mr Sutler? Maybe you would recognise our guest if you heard a description?" And with that, Mrs Riddle began to call for the butler – out loud and with the bell.

"You know, that really isn't necessary."

They froze instantly, the bell abandoned with a plaintive echo of its clear song, the wine glass hovered between the table and Mr Riddle's lips while the fork in Tom's hands stilled, poised on its side.

"Who is it?" Mr Riddle directed the sharp demand towards the shadow of the room.

As if in answer, the door shut and locked with a swift _click_, the window closed with a dull _thunk_ and the curtains _swish_ed together.

Mr Riddle stared even more intently into the darkness.

"Whoever you are, show yourself!"

At the desperate tone of the eldest Riddle, the stranger chuckled.

"Why, of course I will." And so saying, walked out in the light.

There was no mistaking the identity of their uninvited guest: he was the exact image of –

"How can that be?" It was Tom who broke the epiphany of the other occupants of the room. "She died! She never told anyone!"

"Tom? Is that..."

"Yes, _grandmother_, I am part of the family you never knew you had." Their guest replied. The bitterness came to him even after all those years. Or maybe it was because of those years.

The older Riddle narrowed his eyes. "You are no son of mine."

"What, you're the spawn of that scraggly bunch of miscreants down the road?" Mr Riddle interrupted, his voice incredulous and his eyes mocking. "Right lot of trash, they were. Incestuous, I'd say, with that amount of queerness. Tom, are you sure it's yours?"

The younger Riddle wore a curious expression – a combination of amusement and disgust. However, Mr Riddle continued before he could respond.

"Not hard to see where they got their _habits._ Must have had weak, trashy ancestors to produce such filthy offsprings. It's not hard to see how _you_ turned out." He sneered, his expression turning particularly nasty. "It's one of the basic rules of breeding. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup – "

The fork in Mr Riddle's hand pierced his tongue. Blood covered the table in front of him and he gurgled weakly, eye's wide and terrified.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had remained impassive throughout his grandfather's complimentary speech but his hand had convulsed most spectacularly near the finale.

"Your tongue isn't doing you any favours Mr Riddle." The voice was calm, collected – a far cry from the emotions suggested by the impulsive action moments before. His eyes slid over the other occupants. "I suggest similar restraint from your...family."

A disdainful sniff resounded in the silent room.

"We don't take orders from déclassé degenerates like you." It was Mrs Riddle who spoke, her tone haughty and cold. She seemed unaffected by the picture her husband made, shaking with pain and fright with his hand still clutching the fork. "Your lot has always been the scum of the street and will always be; _ghastly _common beasts that you are – "

Another convulsion struck the estranged relative. An eerie light cast terrible angles upon his face, rendering it utterly fiendish with power and rage. It ran along the length of his arm and at the last second, he angled it towards the eldest Riddle. The fork flew out - along with the tongue - but he would not have felt it – his eyes were already glazed and his heart had stopped cold.

Marvolo Riddle sucked in a deep breath and allowed indifference to descend upon him. When he opened his eyes, they were clear and flat, his gaze steady when it met the older Riddle's shaken stare and Mrs Riddle's watery eyes.

"I do apologise for jumping ahead of schedule, but I hope it won't inconvenience you in any way." At this point, a sinister smile twitched his lips for a fraction of a second. "Now, I believe we were about to have dinner."

With that, he seated himself in the chair closest to the corner of the room.

"I endured your _mother_'s witchcraft but I will draw the line at dining with _creatures_. I refuse to participate in this charade." A quick glance at his father removed the determination as he licked his lips nervously.

"Pick up your fork."

"No."

"No?" He raised an eyebrow. His voice hardened. "Pick. Up. Your. Fork."

"No. I'm not going to follow the orders of a madman." Riddle replied firmly.

"You think so?" He fingered his wand. "Defiance. I do find it a most _detestable_ trait."

Tom eyed the stick in his hand nervously. "What are you doing?"

Marvolo grinned. "Oh I am going to make you proud, father."

He barely had time to add confusion to his emotional salad before –

"_Imperio."_

At the whispered word, the defiance which had inspired the man bled out in one smooth breath, his eyes glazed over and his jaw became slack.

"What did you do to him?" His dear grandmother shrieked. Horrified and shaking with fear, she was the picture of what he had come to accomplish and the sight brought a smirk to his lips. It twisted his face into something too monstrous to behold.

The woman's gaze snapped back to her son as he took a calm step towards her.

"Tom? W-What are you doing?"

Just as the defiance had fled the man, so too did the courage the woman had felt. She was backed against the wall now, utterly trapped in the corner of the room. There was no escape; neither from her son's relentless pace nor from the intruder's disquieting fury.

She licked her lips.

"Tom?"

She shouldn't fear him – he was her son! But in his eyes was a light she had never seen. Dark, it was, with flecks of light. It was altogether captivating and alien; she felt drawn to the gaze and at the same time, repulsed by it.

Her mind willed her to look away. But she couldn't; she couldn't tear herself from those eyes.

It was probably the last thing she'd ever see.

The world closed in around her as she stared at the beloved face. A crease appeared between the eyebrows. Did she merely mirror the movement or did it exist only on his face?

Spasms broke out in Tom Riddle Snr's face as all his limbs became still. There seemed to be some struggle then for though nothing happened, the tension did not ebb. Through it all, Mrs Riddle waited as one doomed.

With a great hiss, Tom Riddle broke through the will of his father, pushing him forward, spurring him into action.

And Mrs Riddle found herself gasping for breath, her feet dangling a metre from the plush carpet she had lovingly selected so many years before.

"Like father, like son." He chuckled as he observed the poetic image that his Muggle father made, clutching the limp body of his grandmother.

"I will never be like you." It lacked the bravado of before and its effect was rather ruined by the grief and uncertain in his voice. Tom seized upon it immediately.

"And what is like me? Do you mean a murderer, perhaps? You and I have both murdered. There's one I prepared earlier, and here's one you've just prepared." Oh he was going to enjoy this; the opportunity to finally make the weakness in his veins suffer. "Or what do you mean?"

"I did not murder her."

"Oh so you don't think she choked at your hands? So you don't think that as she died she saw only you, recognising you as the one who took the breath from her body?" He relished the look of anguish on Riddle's face as he mentioned the role that his father had played. "What interesting concepts you have, _father_."

"You. _You!_ **You** made me do it. I heard you in my head. _You_ did this!"

"Did I? You could have resisted. You hesitated, didn't you? Why didn't you try harder? Did you _want_ her to die? Oh I think we're a bit more similar than you think, father."

The man's gaze dropped to the floor in front of him. Tom was rather disappointed at the lack of reaction to his words. Plentiful amounts of delectable internal struggles and moral confusion, yes, but also some resplendent displays of agony.

But maybe he was being hasty.

The silence stretched and the twin images stayed stationary.

Tom waited, knowing this was his only chance. Life was precious; he could only take it away once.

"No..."

It was the man on the floor. He had disrupted the stillness and had given way to moaning and clutching at the body in his arms. One of the pale arms of the woman dropped to the floor with a _thunk_ and the man stopped his movement.

With a suddenness which would have unnerved any lesser man, Riddle pushed himself away, knocking his body hard on the wall behind him. There he stayed, grasping at his hair as he clenched his eyes tight, indecipherable noises escaping his throat.

Tom Riddle curled his lip at the sight. It was a gesture altogether lacking in mirth or goodwill. He surveyed the scene before him in utter disgust.

His weak Muggle grandparents lay broken, surrounded by the riches of which they were once momentously proud of. And in the midst of the lifeless splendour, his weak Muggle father moaned, whimpered and rocked himself backwards and forwards. Pathetic.

Tom lifted his wand in one graceful arc.

"_Avada Kedavra."_

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><p>Wrote this after deciding that Lord Voldemort's most important moment might have been this...the day he decided to really start over. Hope you enjoyed it and please leave a comment. Flame if you want - I think I can handle it.<p>

Summary is a modified quote from Doctor Who. Don't own that either.


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